


Scorched Earth

by LandOfMistAndSecrets



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 09:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15969074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LandOfMistAndSecrets/pseuds/LandOfMistAndSecrets
Summary: They're just a few hours out from Northreach, and Therion can't sleep.(Spoiler Warning: details some of the major events from Therion Ch 4, and some of the information from Therion Ch 3.)





	Scorched Earth

He snapped awake in a cold sweat, his heart like a hummingbird in his chest. 

Falling. He had been falling, falling, falling, Darius's laughter following him down, booming through the canyon somehow louder than the wind in his ears. It was a familiar dream. More familiar than ever, really, since he'd locked eyes with Darius in the depths of those godsdamned caves and heard that mocking voice again, that odd vicious lilting, each syllable dripping with venom and disdain.

Had it always been like that? Had he just always turned a deaf ear to it out of a sick sense of sentimental optimism, right up to the end?

The dream took its time in fading. He flexed his fingers while his heart rate slowed, staring up at the tapered top of the tent he shared with Alfyn. The wind whipped around their meager shelter, driving the chill in through the cloth and hide. he shivered beneath the blankets, and told himself it was only the cold. 

Beside him -- _around_ him, really, he was a clingy bastard -- Alfyn made a soft sound, shifting against him, murmuring something unintelligible. Unlike Therion, Alfyn was a heavy sleeper. He went right on softly snoring through things that kept Therion awake or dozing fitfully with his dagger close by. Therion studied his face, his wrinkled brow and long lashes, his pale cheeks and pink, wind-chapped lips.

He imagined with a twist in his gut what Alfyn would think and say if he knew the truth about him and Darius, how complicated it really was. How it hadn’t been all bad, even if the bad parts had been awful. How the way it had ended had been a shock not just because Therion had always ultimately trusted Darius, but because he’d been stupid enough to think that he was special, that Darius viewed him differently from all the people they’d climbed over together, working more ambitious jobs every month. That when he thought about Darius, a small, pathetic part of him still hoped for an apology, an explanation, some kind of reassurance that he hadn’t been wrong in his naivete about _everything_ , between them. 

He thought about that, turning it over in his head while the sweat cooled on his face. 

They were camped just a few hours' travel from Northreach, stopped for the night well short of the city gates and any potential scouts Darius might have set on them. They'd be easy to spot on their approach, eight people tromping through the wind and snow. They might as well blow a fucking trumpet to herald their arrival, maybe get a set of war drums to beat while they marched into whatever trap was waiting for them. Darius would find it funny, no doubt. He could just imagine. _Really, Therion? Bringing the likes of them into this? What were you thinking?_

What _was_ he thinking? 

His breath came shallow and his mouth went dry, and thoughts tumbled through his mind, faster and faster. A few hours. A few hours was nothing. He could make better time alone, anyway. He could be in Northreach before the others were even awake, and maybe he could be done with Darius -- one way or another -- before they made it to the city. It would be better that way. 

He'd been caught flat footed at the Market, shocked into sluggish stupidity, reeling from the impact of the unexpected reunion. Northreach would be different. 

He knew how Darius worked. Knew what sort of people he liked to surround himself with. Not subtle ones, that was certain. Whatever Darius had done to prepare, Therion could work around it, and in their line of business, working was _always_ easier alone. 

_And you just don't want them to see you like that again,_ a voice that sounded vaguely like Darius whispered in his head. That, too, was familiar. That voice had been whispering at him for years, chiding his weaknesses, cataloging his failures, and viciously quashing stray self-indulgent hopes. Therion flinched away from it, but he couldn't deny its assertion.

He _didn't_ want them to see him like that again, and was that so bad? Was it so wrong that the right choice was also the one that was most comfortable for him, personally? Darius brought out the worst in him, and he didn’t want to risk being reduced to that pathetic, broken person in front of all the others. Not even Alfyn. Hell, _especially_ not Alfyn. Whatever it was they were doing, it was... good, genuinely good, and the thought of putting it all at risk with some stupid revelation involving Darius made him want to retch his dinner up. 

The solution was simple. He waited until his thoughts stopped racing, until his breathing slowed and his doubts melted beneath the weight of increasing conviction. Then he eased himself out of Alfyn's arms, wincing against the cold that rushed in to replace the warmth of his body against his. Aside from a few little grumbles and a deeply creased brow, Alfyn barely stirred, as expected. Therion tucked their blankets back around him, studying his sleeping face like he could memorize it, just in case. 

Just in case they didn't follow him, after all. He couldn't have blamed them for turning back after what he was about to do. 

Just in case... 

He shook himself. Sentimentality was for fools. 

He collected his things in silence, dressing as light as he could stand for the weather, carrying as little with him as he could justify. He pulled on his boots and his pack, Alfyn curled himself into the blankets like a pillbug, and Therion refused to acknowledge the dull ache in his chest as he eased the tent flap open and slipped out into the biting cold. _You were hoping he'd wake up, after all,_ that voice scoffed at him. _That he'd sit up and grab your arms and pull you close, and kiss the only logical thoughts you've had in months right out of your head._

He shivered, wrapped his arms tight around himself, and went north. 

* 

The moon had given way to a pale, inadequate morning sun by the time he crested the last hill. The city of Northreach sprawled out before him, half buried in the snow. Smoke curled into the air above the city, blending into the pale sky, and here in front the gates were open, unguarded, and deceptively welcoming. 

Therion knew better. The second he crossed into that city, Darius was likely to know about it, one way or another. He took a deep breath, the cold air searing his lungs. All it meant was that he had to move fast. Be smart. Stay aware. Hope that his time with the others hadn't robbed him of his instincts, because here he would need them all. 

He started down the hill. 

No one stopped him on the path to the gate, and no one so much as glanced at him as he passed through, heart in his throat. Not openly, at least. He kept his head down and darted his eyes ahead, scanning the likely places for skulking shadows whispering his arrival. 

He learned quickly that in Northreach, the shadows didn't skulk. 

The few city folk out and about so early stepped quickly, their posture a mirror of Therion's, heads down and eyes darting as though they, too, were afraid they might be accosted at any moment. Therion's jaw tightened as he moved through the slush-soaked streets, taking stock of this while simultaneously trying to keep walls at his back and openings around him to a minimum. People rushed out of his way when he encountered them, hardly muttering a word, some studying him with fearful expressions before ducking away and disappearing around the nearest corner. 

Was it him in particular that they were afraid of, or something else? Hard to say. He could imagine what the others would say. Prim would make some offhand quip, _Nice reception_ , and Tressa would stomp her feet to warm herself and make some pun -- _Would you say it's a cold one, Prim?_ H'aanit would patiently ask them to explain the joke, Cyrus would oblige with no hint of shame or self awareness whatsoever, and Alfyn... 

Alfyn would put a hand on his shoulder and turn him around, force him to stop for a second and look at him, talk to him. _How are you holding up,_ he'd ask, in that baffling sincere way he had. _Still hanging in there?_

_And even when they aren't here, you're letting them distract you._ The hard voice inside him cut through the fantasy. He grit his teeth. It was right. If he went into this distracted, chances were he wouldn't come out of it alive. What would the rest of them do, then? Would they be upset? Relieved? Resigned? 

Shit, would they avenge him? The thought made him smile. Darius would never see _that_ coming. 

_Focus, you fucking idiot!_

He sucked in a breath of cold air, and ahead of him, the street opened into a small city square. Near its center, a noticeably well dressed fellow was cursing with cheerful abandon, examining a broken wheel on his cart, while a small scattering of the city's residents watched with hollowed, suspicious eyes. Therion paused, surveying the situation. Something seemed... off. 

Better to cut back and around another way, he decided, but before he could retreat, several figures spilled out into the square wearing identically cut, heavy hooded cloaks. Therion flattened himself against the wall, exhaling slowly. Maybe it was better to go before this got ugly, but if he was going to find Darius, he needed information. These cloaked fellows seemed like just the sort that might be able to provide.

"Well, look here," one of them said, nonchalant as anything, sauntering up to the well dressed gentleman. Therion noted with interest that his cloak was dyed a darker shade than the others -- night black, where the others were more dusky grey. This was organized, no doubt. They'd dug the pitfall that had hobbled this man's cart and waited for him to climb out to investigate. It had been one of Darius's favorite tricks. 

But they'd never pulled it off in the middle of a city, like this. It was a trick for the roads and highways, well outside the purview of the cities and their guards. The sense of _wrongness_ grew heavier around him with each passing second. He watched while the hooded men harassed their victim, first with words and then with actions, shoving him between them, their ugly laughter echoing unchallenged. Bystanders stood frozen, not a single one bothering to fetch the guards, and that felt significant -- theirs was the look of learned helplessness. This wasn't the first time this had happened, here. 

The man squealed for help, but of course, none came. For a moment, Therion was genuinely afraid they'd kill the man -- and since when did his stomach turn so at such things? It wouldn't have been the first murder he'd witnessed. Annoyed with himself, he kept his eyes on the scene until it became clear the hooded figures were content with robbing the idiot, leaving him bruised but alive, wailing on his knees in the half-frozen mud. 

Ophilia would have rushed in to help him. Olberic would have marched after the thieves, probably with a significant look at him. _You see, Therion? These are your kin and your kind, so long as you continue as you are._ He snorted, softly, shoving Olberic's imagined scolding out of his mind. He had to focus. He had to follow those men without being seen. 

Tailing people had always been one of his strengths. He'd been better at it than Darius, better than anyone he knew. Better than even Darius had known, because in those rare occasions when someone got away from him, it was generally because he'd let them go, afraid of what Darius would do when they caught them. He shook those thoughts away, too. Pointless distraction. 

The hooded men split their haul in a street hardly a block from the square, and then the group broke up, some of them heading back down toward the corner Therion crouched behind, observing them. Swearing softly, Therion straightened up, crossed his arms and adjusted his scarf to obscure more of his face. Then he stepped out of the adjacent alley like he was minding his own business and unaware of what was happening ahead at all. The black-cloaked thief deliberately knocked into him with a shoulder as he passed, and Therion staggered to one side, his hidden right hand tightening on the hilt of his dagger. 

"Watch yourself," the man growled, glaring at him. Their eyes locked, and Therion’s saw his narrow, just a fraction. He coiled himself up to strike first, but before it came to that, the man dropped his gaze with a smattering of muttered curses. Then he hurried away, his pouch of ill-gotten gains jangling merrily at his side. 

Therion took five seconds to catch his breath. Then he followed after him.

It was easy. Thief or no, the man walked the streets like he owned them, and Therion noted with some interest that he had yet to see a single guardsman. Did Northreach even _have_ guards, anymore? Had they somehow been disbanded? An oily tendril of unease unfurled in his gut. He'd imagined Darius's hold on this city would be a tight but underground one, not this meticulous, open-air deconstruction of regular law and order. And if he'd miscalculated that, what else had he gotten wrong? 

His quarry climbed a set of slick stairs and disappeared into a building, and Therion noted with some dark amusement that the place was a tavern, the name on the wooden sign hanging above the door vandalized to the point of illegibility. Judging by the light in the windows and the sounds drifting from it into the street, it was still busy even here at the very crack of dawn. He wondered how many of the men inside had been there all night long. All of them, most like.

It didn't take long to find a decent vantage point to keep tabs on the place from. From there, however, he waited a long time, until the cold had seeped into his very bones, his extremeties all slowly going slowly numb. Every second that passed felt like it was physically scraping over his brain. He never took his eyes off the door, but his quarry never emerged. Doubt filled him as surely as the cold. Darius could well have been inside that building, just then. If his hold over the city was so strong, why not carouse in public taverns?

But it wasn't his style. Darius didn't like to mingle with his underlings. He liked to keep them aware of his better station, to make his very presence into a rare honor for them to appreciate. Effusively.

He made a derisive sound, low in his throat. His companions never would have put up with this. They would have marched in, all noise and clamor, setting the balance of the entire establishment off kilter while Therion pinched the bridge of his nose and sent up apologies to Aeber for their disregard for stealth and good sense. H'aanit probably would have set her damned cat on people until one of them squealed. Nice and direct. The hooded man wouldn't have expected that, an actual snow leopard growling in his face while he babbled on his back in a puddle of overturned ale.

 _For fuck's sake, focus!_

He shook himself. Chewed the inside of his cheek, considering. He wasn't H'aanit, and he didn't have a fucking snow leopard, so he'd have to do things the old fashioned way.. But he had to stay aware of the time, too. They would be awake, by now. What were they doing? Were they chasing after him, cursing his decision? Or were they halfway back to Stillsnow, muttering good riddance? The ache in his chest returned full force, stealing his breath. He bent over, eyes shut, willing it away. Alfyn was following him. Prim, too. If nothing else, they'd want to yell at him one last time, right?

Or maybe they'd all been waiting for an excuse to leave him behind, and his thinking otherwise was just another symptom of his own embarrassing failings.

The tavern door opened with a bang, and Therion's chin snapped up, eyes narrowing. Laughter spilled out of the doorway, and on its heels a thin stick of a man stumbled through, staggering for a grip on the icy rail.

"Please!" he shouted, voice thin and desperate. "Please, I tell you, none of us has seen that man! None of us knows him! Please, at least let me have my _boots._ My feet will freeze! I beg you!"

More laughter, and the door slammed in his face. A pit opened in Therion's stomach. He glanced over his shoulder, feeling suddenly exposed. The man pounded at the door for a few fruitless minutes, and then, cursing, hobbled down the stairs and into the street. He was, in fact, limping along in soaked, socked feet. And again, not a soul so much as offered sympathy for him, let alone any help. 

Maybe he was letting his ego run wild, but he had little doubt who the guy had been referring to. _None of us knows that man._ He thought about how he'd locked eyes with that black-cloaked strongarm and swore again, a little itch forming between his shoulder blades. He'd been recognized, and they were as tired of waiting for him to make a move as he was of waiting for them.

He stood, slowly. _This is probably the trap you’ve been so worried about_ , that cold voice inside of him said. _And you're going to walk right into it, because otherwise, they're going to do something worse to the next guy, and worse to the next, and worse and worse and worse until you reveal yourself._

Darius had always called him soft hearted. No doubt he’d passed the information on. 

He approached the place with his back straight and his chin up, like this was the most natural thing in the world to be doing. His steps fell heavily on the stairs. Shadowed figures danced by the windows. Muttered chatter and the occasional bark of laughter reached him on the threshold. 

He took a breath, and then he threw the door open wide and walked in like he owned the place. 

The mood within changed instantly. 

Conversation ceased, and all laughter went with it. About half the tavern's patrons wore what he thought of as _the uniform_ , grey cloaks with heavy hoods. Not all of them had said hoods up, and as he walked purposefully to the counter some two dozen pairs of eyes watched him go. Some were wide with surprise, others narrowed and calculating. His back itched under the weight of their stares, and his fingers twitched over the hilt of his dagger. If the game hadn't been up before, it surely was, now. 

The blackcloak he'd followed here had seated himself at the bar, and hadn't so much as shifted on his stool since Therion’s grand entrance. The barkeep wouldn't even meet his eyes, and, a second later, Therion saw the reason why -- a wanted poster hung behind the counter, featuring his own crudely drawn portrait. He narrowed his eyes, scanning over the narrow text scrawled beneath it. _Beware,_ it read. _Any involvement with this man will be considered direct opposition to Lord Darius._

He couldn't stop the sound of disgust that rose out of his throat. The barkeep flinched away, slinking further down the bar, away from him. " _Lord_ Darius, huh?" He couldn't stop himself. The barkeep made a noise that was more a squeak than anything else. The blackcloak picked up his drink and took a long draught, his low chuckle loud in the otherwise silent establishment.

"Please, sir," the barkeep said, after a visible struggle to find his voice. "Please, just go. Just _go._ " 

"Better do as he says," the blackcloak said. He set his mug down and gestured with his other hand. The sound of chairs scraping backward filled the room.

Therion turned, slowly. The hooded figures were standing, one by one, and everyone else was fleeing the place as quick as they could, pouring out through the door into the pale light of the street.

Olberic would have shouldered his way in front of him, shield up, bellowing a challenge. 

Primrose would have given his arm a squeeze and shot him a fierce smile, blade at the ready, coils of dark magic already shimmering the air around her. 

Alfyn... 

It didn't matter. They weren't here. There was only him and his wits. He withdrew a small, round object from one of his many pockets, face grim.

"Tell me where I can find Darius," he said, "And maybe I'll let you all walk out of here alive." 

The blackcloak laughed. "You're just as cocky as he said you'd be," he said. "Don't worry. We'll be taking you to him soon enough -- bound and gagged like the little gift to his lordship you are." The man's eyes slid over him in a way that made his skin crawl. 

"Wrong answer," Therion said, and then he snapped a spark to life, lighting the fuse on the object he had in hand. The hooded men closed in around the bar in a semi-circle, and Therion let the thing drop. It spat sparks as it rolled across the floor. 

"He’s got a smoker!" The blackcloak shouted, just before it flashed to life, erupting with a loud _pop_. Thick blue-grey smoke poured from it, filling the cramped little tavern fast, swirling in the sudden riot of moving, coughing bodies. The blackcloak lunged at him first, blade drawn. 

Muscle memory took over. Therion turned and countered him easily. Their knives flashed, jabbing quick and brutal, and before the others could so much as cross the space between them Therion had the man staggering back, howling in pain. He could hear someone weeping. He thought it was probably the barkeep, huddled behind the counter. 

No time to think about it. He took a deep, lung-burning breath and turned into the smoke, dashing for the door, which someone had wisely opened in an attempt to clear the air. The smartest of the lot would be waiting to ambush him outside, but he'd be ready for that. Two greycloaks tried to stop him as he went by, but Therion danced easily around them and into the cold, slamming the heavy door behind him. He leapt over the railing and landed gracefully enough in a frozen snowbank below. 

Laughter greeted him. He straightened up and found six men waiting, led by a second blackcloak. This one had broader shoulders and was grinning at him with a mouthful of crooked teeth.

These were the ones that had been watching him watch the tavern, Therion thought. His skin crawled. Fucking idiot! How much time had he given them to ensure he was surrounded?

"Nice to meet you in the flesh," the blackcloak said. "We've heard so many stories." 

"How sad then that I've never heard of you." Therion lifted his bloody dagger. Above him, he heard the tavern door slam back open. Garbled shouts and hacking coughs filled the air. 

"That so?" The blackcloak leered at him, and a low spattering of laughter shuddered through the men fanning out to either side of him. "You'll know my name, soon enough. Lord Darius said to bring you back alive, but far as I know, your condition don't matter much so long as you're breathin'." He drew a blade, and the steel caught the light. "I'll take it nice and slow, I reckon." He gestured, and two of the men behind him raised a pair of bows.

It was pathetic, actually, how his brain latched onto the fact that Darius wanted to see him again. A strange sense of pride swelled in his chest and soured in his gut. The bowmen knocked and drew. Therion spoke an incantation, low and melodic, as near to Prim's unique cadence as he could manage. He wouldn’t get a second chance. The arrows loosed. A night-black swathe of dark magic twisted the space between them, swallowing the arrows mid-flight. 

Fuck, but she would have been proud of that execution. 

He shot forward, dagger in hand, and the remaining men scattered, three of them practically throwing themselves out of his way. The archers lowered their bows, wearing mirrored befuddled expressions. The blackcloak and one greycloak remained to engage him, and Therion had fought and won two on one plenty of times. The trick was to disable the weaker opponent fast. 

Blades flashed, cloaks swirled, and the greycloak cried out in pain, staggering back with blood welling between fingers pressed to his chest. The blackcloak wasn't grinning, anymore. Instead he cursed and lunged at him, slow, too slow, everyone was so godsdamned slow. Therion could see the arc of his blow, as though time itself had slowed and was stretching reality to his awareness. He moved, boots crunching in the sleet underfoot, and the blackcloak overshot his lunge and stumbled past, skidding on the icy ground. Therion swept one leg around, taking him off his feet completely, and then stood over him, dagger pointed directly at his gaping face. 

More of them were pouring down the stairs from the tavern above, and the archers were re-nocking their bows. These men had the information he needed, but he'd die if he lingered here much longer. 

If only he'd had a snow leopard. His lips twitched, he shook his head, and then he spun to flee. 

Except there were more men boiling up the alley at his back. 

_Shit,_ he thought, counting them. Too many. They'd surrounded him, just as he thought. Maybe all of it had been a setup, right from the beleaguered gentleman with the hobbled cart. He could try to fight his way through, but if they were going to take him to Darius anyway, maybe it was better to surrender. He could handle pain. He’d handled plenty. 

"Therion!" 

It was a familiar voice. He snapped his head around, shock and a faint thread of hope crackling up his spine. Something shot past his face, so fast he couldn't register it -- until it hit someone behind him with a wet _thunk_ and accompanying scream. Another joined it. Crossbow bolts. 

"Heathcote?"

"Don't just stand there like a fool," the old man hissed at him, and there he was, standing half out of a grate in the street, armed and breathing heavily, already cranking the crossbow for another shot. 

Therion ran for him. Another bolt went by, another dismayed scream echoed at his back. Arrows volleyed back from the other direction, falling mercifully wide. Satisfied that Therion was on his way, Heathcote disappeared into the grate. Moments later, Therion dropped in after him, gripping the rickety ladder and more sliding down the thing than climbing. His boots hit the ground hard, the impact clacking through his bones, and he let out a pained little grunt. He could already hear the shouts of their pursuers closing in. 

"This way, quickly," Heathcote called, a conjured wisp of fire lighting the way before him. Therion answered with a curt nod, and they took off at a dead run, one after the other. Their own heavy footfalls echoed around them, bouncing off the brick sewer walls, making it impossible to pinpoint their position by sound alone. Heathcote took them around so many corners and down so many corridors that soon even Therion's sense of direction was hopelessly confused. He felt that they had turned in a full circle more than once, and it occurred to him even as he ran, breath ragged, that the old butler could have planned this. He could have set this up as a ruse to force Therion to trust him. 

Really, the entire thing -- the dragonstones, the rumours, all of it -- could have been engineered by Darius as a way to trap him in this place and make one last hilarious joke out of his willingness to trust a near stranger before finishing him off for good. It would be just like Darius to give orders to keep him alive just so he could gloat at him one last time.

Only when the last echoes of their pursuers' frenzied shouts and hurried steps had faded completely did Heathcote so much as slow his pace. A few more corridors, and they came at last to their apparent destination -- another ladder leading back up into the streets, wherever they were now in the city. Therion certainly didn't know. 

But instead of climbing, or even offering an explanation, Heathcote doubled over, gasping for air, clutching the ladder for support. His lined face had gone pale save for the red of his cheeks, and he had sweat soaking a stain into his perfectly tailored coat around the collar. 

Therion took a step toward him. "Are you okay?" The words left his mouth before he could second guess them, and Heathcote shot him a significant look even as he wheezed, his old grey eyes watering. 

"I'll live," he said, finally, straightening with what seemed to be a great amount of effort. "But thank you for your concern." 

_It wasn't concern_ , Therion thought, but he didn't say it out loud, so how sincere could it have possibly been? He swallowed heavily. Heathcote nodded like he could read his mind. 

"This will take us somewhere safe, but I can't guarantee it will remain that way for long. Darius will have all of his men combing the streets for you, now. Come." He took an unsteady breath and started up the ladder. 

Therion followed, reluctantly. 

Eventually he found himself led to a small, unimposing home on what he thought was the far eastern edge of the city, nearly in the shadow of its walls. There was a fire burning in the hearth, and Heathcote locked the door and walked directly to it, resting his crossbow against the bricks. He gestured impatiently for Therion to join him. 

They stood there a long time, silent, gathering themselves in the firelight. Again, Therion became uncomfortably aware of the passing minutes. He ticked back hours in his head. If the others had hurried, they might be nearly to the city, by now. And if Alfyn had by some miracle woken earlier than expected to find him gone...

He shook his head. "Where did you learn all this?" He gestured around. "Firing crossbows, spying on thieves, skulking through the sewers. How did you even _find_ me?" 

Heathcote chuckled, softly, and Therion felt the blood rise in his face, reddening his cheeks. He crossed his arms, aware he was sulking and unable to stop. "I understand you have questions," Heathcote said in that strangely kind voice he had, self assured but somehow gentle, simultaneously. Therion hunched into his scarf, disliking as ever the weight of his grey-eyed scrutiny. "I have a few of my own." 

Therion opened his mouth to protest, but Heathcote just held up a hand.

"I intend to offer explanations first," he assured him, with a wry little smirk that would have looked more natural on the face of a much younger man. Therion made a soft, derisive sound. 

"You mean about how you went from a master thief to a trap-setting butler, right?" 

Heathcote glanced at him, the smirk melting into a grimace. "Something like that, yes. I'll need to gloss over some of the details for time, mind you, but if you'll hear it... I'll tell you my story." 

Therion thought of the second ticking by, the people that even now could have been rushing into the city after him... and nodded anyway, despite himself. 

He’d been curious for a long time, after all. 

*

Heathcote spoke for some time, telling tales of betrayal and intrigue, none of it especially shocking -- except, perhaps, what he said about Cordelia Ravus. His employer of sorts was a kind, trusting sort of woman -- too much so, at least to Therion's eyes. But from what Heathcote told of her history it hadn't always been so, and it was damned hard to imagine.

Harder still to picture was this old man as a spry young thief, so much like him, sneaking into Ravus Manor only to be trapped in exactly the same way Therion had been. _History repeats itself,_ he thought absently, holding his hands out before the fire, turning the tale over in his mind. 

Why was it that betrayal seemed to affect other people so differently? How was it that everyone else seemed to come away from such experiences stronger, better? He didn't dare ask the questions, and Heathcote certainly didn't offer the answers... at least, not directly. 

He seemed to be making a point indirectly, though, and Therion shied away from it, thinking of his abandoned companions. What Alfyn must have thought when he'd found him gone with all his things. What horrible things Prim and Tressa must have said about him, even while they prepared to rush to his aid once again. 

Assuming that was even what they were doing. 

"You said you had questions, too," he said, finally, when the conversation died. Heathcote peered at him, nodding. 

"Your friends," he said, again like he could read his mind. "Where are they?" 

Therion flinched away from him. "This is something I have to do alone," he said.

Heathcote studied him, and for just a second, Therion thought he was going to argue, really press the point. He was steeling himself for his retort when the fight seemed to go out of the old man all at once, his shoulders slumping, his head shaking slowly side to side. Heathcote merely sighed at him, and let the matter drop. "There is a hatch hidden behind the altar of the old chapel," he said, instead. Therion straightened up, surprised. 

"Darius's hideout?" 

"I believe so. The cloaked ones come and go from there -- it is an open secret, at this point. What you'll find inside, I cannot say. I do not know how deep those tunnels run." 

"Lovely." 

"I suggest you disguise yourself in something more practical for the occasion. I believe I have just the thing in the closet, there." 

Therion shot him a skeptical look, but he went and opened it all the same. It was empty, save for several identical garments draped neatly on wooden hangers.

"Their cloaks," he said, examining the fabric. Dusk grey to the last. "Not a very wide selection." 

"It should get you past the initial guard, if you’re clever about it."

"Aren’t I always?" 

Heathcote just blinked his calm, watery eyes, refusing to play along. "They have your face, but for most of them, not your voice," he said. "Rather short sighted of them to disguise themselves in something that so easily hides the former." 

Therion answered that with a sardonic little chuckle. He chose a cloak and fit the fabric over his head and around his shoulders. Scratchy, and a bit too big for him, but that would be an advantage in this situation. "How do I look?" 

Heathcote raised an eyebrow. "Rather like a thief," he said. 

"Perfect." 

"Therion," Heathcote said, more seriously. 

"That's my name." 

"You must careful. Darius will not be alone in that den of thieves. At the very least he’ll have left a lookout to prevent or warn him of your arrival."

"I'll be fine." Therion pulled the hood over his eyes, glad for its face concealing properties, because he could feel his own heating up, again. " _You_ be careful. Darius will go door to door, if he has to." 

"I've no doubt. I don't plan to remain here to see this through. I plan to be back in Bolderfall waiting for you to return to us with those stones." 

"I see." Therion turned to go, before the melancholy sentimentality he could feel breeding in him like a virus could show any of its ugly symptoms. "Then I guess I'll see you then." 

"I look forward to it." 

But he paused at the door. He could feel Heathcote's questioning eyes piercing his back. He cleared his throat. "Was it just a coincidence, then? That this scavenger hunt you put me on led me back to him?" 

A beat of quiet. An old man's sigh. "Therion. If I had known how this would play out, I never would have put that bangle on your wrist. That you and Darius were once acquainted is an inconvenient coincidence, and nothing more." 

"Inconvenient?" 

"Yes. For whatever reason, we are never as careful as we should be when it comes to confronting the ghosts of our past." 

Well. Fair enough, he thought. "You sound like you know something about that first-hand." 

"As you have mentioned once or twice yourself, I am very old. It would seem the ghosts tend to collect as the years drag on." 

"So, your advice is not to take this personally?" 

"My advice is to remember what truly matters." 

He nodded, slowly. He thought he knew what that meant. Blessedly, the cold voice of logic in his head remained silent. 

Back into the cold. Clouds had rolled in overhead, blotting out the meager sun, grey and heavy with icy promise. _Perfect,_ he thought, warding off intrusive images of a snowstorm catching the others on the road. They would be fine. They'd all weathered worse. Maybe it would slow them down enough to make up for all the time he'd wasted with his stupid mistakes. 

Either way, he had work to do. 

He wasn't about to go talking his way through Darius's inner circle dressed up like a common lackey, for one thing. Heathcote had given him a healthy head start, but before he went anywhere near that old chapel and its hidden hatches, he needed a darker cloak. 

*

It was ridiculous of them to trust something as superficial as a _cloak_ like it could provide infallible proof of anyone's credentials, and Therion couldn't help but turn it over in his head while he searched for a victim. It was so like Darius to enforce such meticulous and ultimately pointless order. His ideas had all been like that -- fine on the surface, and utterly incomprehensible with just a little bit of applied scrutiny. And he'd never had taken well to constructive criticism. As long as he was making people dance to whatever tune he wanted to whistle, he was happy, but the second anyone stepped out of line... 

Therion had proudly thought he was the only one who could get away with it for the longest time. He had truly been a proper godsdamned idiot. 

Darius's men were out in force, combing the streets for any word of him, just as Heathcote had warned they would be. With his new disguise, it was the easiest thing in the world to whistle over a black-cloaked captain, gesturing like he'd found some information worth sharing. It was even easier to catch the man utterly off guard with a solid chunk of ice and frozen gravel to the back of the head, sending him sprawling into the frozen mud. 

He took the man's cloak, and then, after a moment of reflection, he took his boots, too. He thought of the old man's distressed wailing outside of the tavern not so long ago. Fair was fair. He deposited these discreetly in a public bin several blocks away, and thus prepared, he made for the chapel on the north end of town. 

No one so much as blinked at him. Cityfolk shied away, their eyes round with a different sort of fear, and Darius's men let him be, the greycloaks keeping a wide berth, his fellow black-cloaked officers occassionally saluting at him. Therion memorized the gesture. It seemed like a useful thing to know. 

The chapel itself was unguarded from the outside -- maybe because everyone was out looking for him -- and as it turned out, the secret hatch behind the altar was hardly secret. It wasn't even _locked._ Therion marveled at Darius's breathtaking arrogance as he descended the stairwell beneath the hatch into an underground tunnel, some mix of natural cavern and human excavation. He didn't bother to ruminate on what the Church might have used this secret space for, though it seemed naive to think it had just been extra storage. You could find garbage people in every walk of life. 

_Darius is down here,_ he reminded himself, picking out his steps in the dark. _Pay attention._ Somewhere nearby there was water dripping, and beyond that, hushed voices and a telltale glow in the tunnel. 

What was he going to do? Darius wasn't even the actual goal of his mission. If he could find the stones without finding Darius, all the better. But that seemed unthinkable, and he'd been framing the encounter in his mind all this time as the two of them facing each other one on one... as though Darius would ever fight fair. Or at all. He preferred not to, when he could get away with it. But if Therion _could_ corner him somewhere, alone... 

Would he kill him? _Could_ he kill him? After all he had done, it should have been easy to answer both. 

Instead, he just felt a little queasy. 

He didn't have time to sit there mulling over it. The hours were flying by, and he wanted this over and done with before any -- he swallowed again, heart thudding in his chest -- _complications_ could present themselves. If they were planning on presenting themselves at all. Were they? 

He told himself it didn't matter. Even if they made it to the city now, they would never find him all the way down here. He should have been glad for that, but instead the thought just made him feel... lonely. Like the earth was swallowing him up, cutting him off from everything that really mattered. Stupid. Everything that really mattered was deeper in. Dragonstones and old scores that needed settling far from the prodding, curious eyes of people that were doubtlessly only using him to achieve their own goals, because that's what people did.

He tried to think this with conviction, but it came out hollow and petulant even to his own mind. 

"Oi!" Metal scraped on stone and a bobbing light quavered at the bottom of the stairs. "Who goes there?" 

No more time for second guessing. "You mind your mouth," he snapped, adopting as much of their northern affectation as he could. "I've got a message for Lord Darius." He strode forward, back straight, exuding an obvious air of authority. _They know your face, but not your voice._ Heathcote had sounded so damn amused. 

Well, it _was_ a little funny. 

Funnier still how easy it was to talk his way past the meager guard, all dull-eyed lowly greycloaks to the last. Clearly, no one expected him to find this place, and it was satisfying to know they'd underestimated him. Satisfying to think that _Darius_ had underestimated him so completely. 

A few threats and one brandished blade later, and he found himself hurrying through the tunnels, listening to the greycloaks converse in tense tones at his back. They'd figure it out eventually, and he wanted to be well and finished with this by the time they did. 

*

The path to Darius's private chambers -- or perhaps his personal treasure room, or maybe both -- was blessedly straightforward, if arduous. Stairways and tunnels laid in frozen brick and stone led him deeper underground, and though the air down here was still, it was as cold as anything above ground. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. Flecks of snow drifted in from occasional cracks in the ceiling. Church imagery adorned the crumbling ruins along the path, and Therion hunched under the weight of Aelfric's stone-eyed gaze more than once, wondering to himself: could he do it? Could he lift a blade against Darius without hesitating? Darius certainly wouldn't. One moment of weakness, one _second_ of his typical, predictable sentimentality, and he'd be dead. 

It was a little surprising, how much he found that he didn't want to die. Once, not so long ago, it had been pure spite that fueled him. Darius wanted him dead, so instead, he would live. Prosper, if he could. Simple. Except, looking at it from where he was now, he realized that all thinking like that had done was tangle him up worse in thoughts of Darius and his damned opinion. Only recently had he finally started to feel that maybe he'd found other reasons to go on. Better reasons. 

What had seemed so simple and logical this morning felt a whole lot less so in the here and now. 

He needed to survive to talk to them again, if nothing else. Even if they didn't come after him, even if they did the logical thing and turned back south, even if Alfyn never wanted to see or speak to or touch him again after this, he'd decided somewhere between Heathcote and here that he had to try to explain himself. To try and make them understand that it hadn't been a betrayal, at least not from his perspective. That he hadn't meant it maliciously, and it wasn't because he didn't _trust_ them, he did. 

And that was that, wasn't it? He did. 

Maybe they'd forgive him. He hoped they would. Considering the alternative made his heart clench painfully in a way he wasn't fully prepared to examine, yet. Bad time for it anyway. He'd never know the answer if he died here on the end of Darius's blade. 

The tunnel ended at a raised dais and a set of grand twin staircases, curling up to some crumbling upper floor, with a massive statue of Aelfric set in the center between them like a divine sentry. Therion stopped well short of the chamber. Light and snow streamed in from the cracks overhead, and he wondered if they were even within the bounds of the city, anymore. Maybe there was an exit on this side into the northern wilds. A smuggler's tunnel? It was possible. He had seen churches used as fronts for more sinister operations in the not so distant past.

The dragonstones were nowhere to be seen. He waited patiently in the high archway leading toward the dais, and the more he studied it, the more he was sure this was it. Darius was here, somewhere. Possibly not alone, though Therion had always pictured this as a neat and tidy one on one sort of fight to settle the score between them for good. 

Yeah, right. Nothing about him and Darius had ever been neat or tidy.

A faint scuffing sound echoed ahead of him, from the statue chamber. He snapped to attention, slipping his dagger into his palm.

He heard him before he saw him.

"I should have known it would come to this," Darius sighed, his voice echoing around the chamber. Therion kept very still, eyes focused ahead. He'd prepared himself for it, but even so, that voice dredged up memories that had been fueling his nightmares for years. "Half a hundred of those idiots are out searching for you, and still you somehow end up here, gumming everything up for your betters." His voice was everywhere and nowhere, bouncing around the cavernous room. Hard to pinpoint the source, but Therion thought he must have been hiding near the right side of the stairwell ahead. He focused his attention there. 

"I see you still haven't taken much of an interest in the concept of quality over quantity," he said, trying his best to keep his voice light and unconcerned. Confident. "You made it easy." He pulled the black cloak off, shaking it out with an air of calm he didn't truly feel. "Cloaks, Darius? Really?" 

"Shut up." Darius stalked out into view on the top landing, fists clenched. Therion took a step back, surprised. "You shut your mouth. You don't get a say in none of it anymore, you hear me? You don't get to offer your blessed _input_ , oh so high and mighty, like Aeber himself descended down to convene with us poor mortals for a bubble, oh no." 

"Darius --" 

"I said shut up!" Darius strode forward, down the ostentatious stairs, and Therion took another step back. This was happening too fast. He didn't have a plan. If the others had been here -- but they weren't. "I run this city, now. Me! It's _Lord_ Darius, now, you got that? And who are you? Nothin but a bit o' tom 'neath me daisies, that's what." He took a breath, as though to collect himself. He'd always had an awful temper. When he spoke again, he sounded calmer, more in control. "Listen. Therion. _Partner._ " 

Everything in him balked at that word, spoken in that voice. His stomach flipped over, and he clenched his jaw tight. If Darius noticed a change in his demeanor, he didn't acknowledge it. His voice was smooth, confident. The tone he took when he was trying to swindle somebody. 

"Let's not tarry 'round the point. I know why you're really here. You came to get that bangle off, didn't ye? And I can respect that, of a sort." 

Therion blinked. He lifted his arm and rattled the chain around his wrist. "Did I?" 

Darius paused, peering at him. His pleasant facade filled with cracks, wide and warning. "Did you _not?_ " 

"I guess it'll be nice to have it off. It's not the most flattering fashion accessory, for one thing." He rattled again, making a show of considering it. Stalling for time. "Noisy, too, that's a problem. But is it the reason I'm here? I’m not so sure." 

"If you aren't here to get that unsightly blunder off your arm, then what for? Revenge?" He leered at him, eyebrows up in twin arcs. "Please. You’ve never been the type." 

Therion remained silent, keeping his face as still as he could. Darius’s leer melted into a glower, and then lifted once more into a sly sneer. "Or is it all this bluster and Barney just for a bit o’ treasure, after all?" Darius withdrew the dragonstones, rolling them together in his palm. They glittered where they caught the light. "Like the good old days, eh, Therion?" 

"I should have known you’d have them on you." 

Darius spun them around his fingers, laughing. "And I _already_ know you haven't got the first idea what sort of power they’ve got." 

"No. And I don't want to know. I intend to return them to their rightful owners, and then forget they ever existed." Therion shrugged. "Somewhere along the way, I guess it became more about accomplishing that than anything to do specifically with this stupid _bangle._ " 

"And why's that, then?" 

"Because they deserve better than to be swindled by a guy like you." 

"Hah," Darius grunted. He palmed the gems and swept them out of sight, hidden somewhere on him. Therion’s fingers flexed. "So it's sentimentality over all else _again_ , is that it?" Darius began pacing, gesturing wildly. His face was slowly mottling red. Therion wondered how much he'd had to drink, preparing for the moment. He'd always done that, buried himself in a bottle before a job. It had always upset him, before -- not just that he did it, but that he continued to do it no matter how Therion begged him to knock it off. 

He was glad for it, now. 

"Gods, but it’s all got to be a bad egg!" Darius stopped, framed by the statue of Aelfric, tiny drifts of snow swirling around his boots. "You're too eager by far to play the fool. You keep on _surviving_ and learning nothing at all!" 

Therion heard the first shout of voices, echoing down the tunnel the way he’d come. He realized with a sinking heart that the guards at the entrance, thick though they were, must have figured out his little ruse. He was running out of time. He could swipe the stones, but he'd have to get past Darius and find the exit on this side... either that, or outrun him the other way, and fight through however many of his underlings to go back through the chapel hatch. Either way seemed like bad odds, but besting Darius was the better option. 

If he played this right, maybe he could leverage Darius's life for safe passage... but he doubted it. Darius only inspired loyalty from most people when he seemed invincible, impossible to oppose. Taking him hostage would undermine that, if he even could.

Darius went on ranting, oblivious both to the noise and to Therion's considering expression. 

"Well, here's a lesson for you! You've got nothing and no one! Here you are, sittin' pretty as you please on my doorstep, all Jack Jones! What’s happened to your friends from the Market, eh? What happened to _you?_ You were flat on your bottle at me feet, lookin' up with minces dull and defeated, and I think I liked that a sight better, myself." He drew a long blade, pointing it at him. Under his cloak, Therion swapped his dagger for his sword. "You think this will go any different than it ever has before?" 

Movement caught the corner of his eye. Cloaked figures, approaching fast the way Therion had come. He didn't bother to count them; there were more than had been guarding this place to begin with, which meant the game was up and reinforcements were about to arrive. He took a step forward, shaking his head. "I'll be taking those stones, now," he said. 

Darius laughed. "You think you decidin' your little quest here has some deeper meaning than self preservation will save you? Cliftlands, Sunlands, Snowlands -- what's it matter to me? You'll learn your lesson, mark me. You'll learn it, and then you'll be a good partner to me for once and _die_ , like you should have all those years ago!" 

He lunged forward, sword in hand, charging down the wide, flat stairs from the dais. Therion froze in place, watching him. Just for a second they were back in the Cliftlands, and Darius was coming at him with that same rage on his face... only it was heat and dust instead of cold and snow, and Therion was younger and smaller and so fucking -- _confused --_

Then he blinked, and the memory let him go. Darius lifted his blade and Therion threw himself low, ducking beneath its vicious arc and around the initial rush with ease. This close, the stench of sweat and alcohol was overpowering, and that, too, brought its own memories. Laughter and murmured promises and a pull of liquid burning down his throat. He’d refused to cough or splutter, so damn eager to impress. Darius had watched him with hazy, hungry eyes, gesturing with the bottle for him to come closer. Take another drink. Sit on his lap, just so. 

It was with some surprise that Therion realized: a part of him pitied him, even after everything. 

Heedless, Darius growled at him and lunged again, steel flashing. Again, Therion was faster. He barely had to think. He watched Darius’s blade and posture and let his body do the work, jumping back, twisting away. They circled each other, and Darius drove at him again and again, each strike less precise than the last. Therion gathered himself and caught their blades together, shoving him back, and Darius's eyes flew wide as he stumbled against the wall, open for the riposte. Therion could have opened his belly in an instant, spilled his guts out to steam in the open air. It was what he deserved.

But he couldn’t make himself strike. He was out of time, he could hear the greycloaks' boots on the stone at his back, and _still_ he couldn't do it. Darius's fear melted and became a knowing glint in his eye, a vicious smirk on his lips. He threw himself off the wall and they exchanged another set of blows, steel screeching, echoing in the tunnels. Again he forced Darius back, and again he just _let_ him recover, unable to follow through. _Idiot,_ he thought, desperately. He was going to lose by sheer attrition.

"That's more like it," Darius laughed, breathing hard, hanging back. "That fear on your face -- now you're getting it!" He pulled a dagger out to join his sword, wielding one in each hand. 

"I'm not afraid of you," Therion snapped. 

"If you're not afraid, why won't you come for me, answer me that." Darius struck again, and Therion jerked backward, the blade flashing before his eyes. "Or is that more of your misplaced sentimentality at work, _partner?_ " At this, he swung his sword around in a clumsy whistling arc, and Therion caught the blow on the end of his blade the way Olberic had taught him, gritting his teeth as the impact rattled down his arms. 

"Don't call me that," he hissed.

"A part of me does sincerely wish I could let you live," Darius sighed, so very theatrically. He let his blade slide off of Therion's in a wash of sparks. Therion staggered back. "We made a good pair, once. Time was, you'd have done anything I asked." His lips twisted into a curdled grin. "Time was, you _did_. And bugger me if I've ever met anyone who was half as fun to take apart as you."

"Shut up," Therion spat back at him, but his guts were already roiling, memories he'd meticulously buried bubbling back up to the surface. Hot, sour breath in his face, and rough hands holding him down, gripping hard enough to bruise. The pain had been bad, the embarrassment worse, but worst of all was the strange, sick sense of pride. He had been _proud_ that Darius had wanted that from him, back then. Proud that he'd done so well to endure it, for him. 

Darius watched his face, smirking. "I take it you don't remember it all as fondly as I do." 

"I never think about it at all," Therion said. 

Darius spun his dagger in his hand. "Lessons never do seem to stick, with you. I thought it best to end this quick, but if that's how it's like to be..." he grinned, baring his teeth.

It was funny, in a way. Hilarious, somewhere far beneath the sick feeling in his guts. He'd have died for Darius, once, if only the man hadn't tried to kill him himself. 

"Try it and see," Therion said. It came out in a near whisper.

Darius threw his head back and laughed. Therion's fingers twitched. He could end it now with one decisive strike, opening his throat in an instant, and Darius knew it. He just didn't think he would. 

And he was right. Darius's laughter bounced around the cavern, and the moment passed. 

"Might be I will! You're out of time, Therion, and you've no _idea_ what's to come! Those stones --" He shook his head. "The stones. But, no. You'll die like you lived, looks like. Ignorant and irrelevant, for all your flashy skill. I could see what people thought, watchin' us work. That you were the _better_ one. Time was I didn't even think they were wrong. You're such a waste, Therion! If I had what comes to you natural, I'd rule the world, not just this speck of a city on the edge of the map." He spat a black glob at his feet. "But, see. I'm willin' to work for what nature don't provide." He tilted his head, grinning. "Do you even got the cobblers to put up a _fight_?" 

This time, it was Therion's turn to dash in with a growl. The stones around them trembled under the boots of the approaching greycloaks, their heavy footfalls boiling up behind them. He had two choices: end it fast, or fail. Darius parried his first blow, metal ringing between them, and then he let out a crazed bellow and shoved him back. Therion was the faster of the two, but in a battle of sheer strength, Darius would win every time. Therion stumbled backward, off balance, and nearly dropped the blade. Darius dropped his own jagged dagger with a wicked grin, and pulled a thin, slender paring knife, spinning it in his hands. Therion straightened himself just as Darius rushed him again. 

It would have been so simple to let Darius's momentum carry him over the point of his blade. All he would have had to do was lift the damned thing and stand firm while the point of it buried itself into Darius's chest. Then they'd see if he'd ever had a heart at all, wouldn't they?

But of course, he couldn't do it. He hesitated, just for a second, and then Darius was on him. He slammed Therion backward, and the brick wall met his back hard enough to knock the air out of him. Darius's face was only inches away from his. Therion’s eyes watered as he gasped for air. He could smell the foulness of his breath, see the loathing in his eyes. Just like old times. 

Greycloaks poured into the room, two, four, six from the tunnel and into Darius's chamber. Therion let the sword drop from his cold fingers. He reached forward to clutch at Darius’s coat while his blade clattered to the floor.

A man's voice cracked into the room, sharp as a whip. "Lord Darius," he said, his voice carrying like he’d practiced it, and Therion went statue still, eyes wide. "Pray forgive me, my lord. I see you've already discovered our mistake." 

Darius grunted assent, his eyes flicking sideways to survey his reinforcements. They stood absolutely still in two lines, three in front, three in back, the speaker in the center. "Idiots, all of you," he breathed. "Well, here's some incentive for you. The next man who fails to follow orders dies like this little mongrel, here." Darius pressed his arm up against Therion's throat, his eyes boring into him. There was a rustle of cloth, and one of the greycloaks gasped, lunging a step forward, only to be held back by two others. Therion held Darius's gaze, unwavering, filled with a strange sense of calm. "You'll watch every last moment, and report the details to the rest. One thing's certain -- it won't be fucking _pretty._ " 

Darius's shoulder moved, and a bright spot of pain bloomed beneath Therion's ribs. He gasped, tightening his fingers in Darius's coat. It was the knife, the little paring knife Darius had pulled only moments before.

" _That_ , I'm afraid, was a most grievous mistake," the first greycloak spoke, firmly. Darius's brow wrinkled. 

Therion laughed in his face. 

Everything happened very quickly, then. 

Darius's expression went thunderous. He spun around, dragging Therion with him. He twisted the handle of the knife, the blade still buried in him, turning Therion's laughter into a pained, wheezing groan. The greycloaks exploded into motion, sprinting toward them, and Darius shoved Therion down the hall at them and retreated back up onto the dais. 

The center greycloak caught him, and they staggered together. 

"Cyrus," Therion greeted him, gripping his shoulder with one hand, and the handle of the knife with the other. Blood welled over his fingers, warm and thick. "Oh, fucking hell." He grimaced, tightening his fingers on the handle. "For future reference... you don't sound anything like a northern brigand."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Cyrus said, and this close, Therion could see the concern in his eyes. "Therion, you’re injured --" 

"Hold me up," he said, and then he held his breath and clenched his jaw and pulled the knife free. A fresh well of blood rushed from the wound, trickling down his stomach and soaking into his shirt. Cyrus grunted with effort, holding him up, and Therion noticed through the blackness suddenly crowding the edges of his vision that the others were shedding their cloaks as they followed Darius onto the dais. Prim streaked by, the air around her already twisting with dark promise. H'aanit stuck two fingers in her mouth, and a sharp whistle cut the air around them, followed in moments by an animal shriek. Darius was busy swearing up a storm, demanding explanations. 

"Don't kill him!" Ophilia shrieked. Her face was flushed, her blonde hair in tangled disarray. They locked eyes just for a second. "Alfyn says -- the knife --" She looked away, shouldering past to join the others on the dais. 

"Alfyn is here?" Therion asked, aware that it was the single most pathetic thing he could have said, and unable to stop himself from asking, anyway. His voice sounded small and pained and just a little bit afraid. 

Cyrus lowered his hood and gave him a _look_ , like he'd grown a second head, and then clucked his tongue in that fantastically condescending way he had. Therion slumped against him. He was probably getting blood all over his nice clothes. Served him right. "Yes, of _course._ And if you don't mind, I'll be passing you off, now. I’m needed at the front." His eyes flickered up, and simultaneously, Therion felt a pair of familiar, gentle arms wrap around him from behind. 

What he felt then, in that moment -- he couldn’t describe it. He didn’t have the words or experience. Something like relief, but so much more.

"You should have done the talking," Therion breathed, sagging back against him. He felt dizzy, disoriented. 

Alfyn let out a low, pained laugh, directly in his ear. "What, are you saying I sound like a street tough? -- Yeah, I've got him -- Cyrus! Don't let them kill that man before he tells us what was on that godsdamned _knife._ " 

Cyrus nodded, once, and let him go. Therion slumped immediately and bonelessly into Alfyn's arms, his mind buzzing with the knowledge that Darius was probably about to die. That he wouldn't be there to see it. Did he even want to be? He didn't think he did. His side throbbed with deep, distracting pain, and there was something else -- his joints had begun to ache. His tongue felt too thick for his mouth. Sweat covered him in a heavy sheen. 

"I'm saying," he began, forcing the words out, but then Alfyn's searching fingers found the wound and pressed against it, and all the stupid, unnecessary teasing bullshit he had planned flew right out of his head. A red wash of pain replaced it. He groaned, trying to pull away, but his muscles didn't seem to be taking signals from his brain, anymore. 

"Hush," Alfyn scolded him. He could hear Prim talking, somewhere behind them, Darius answering in a babble of insults and mocking laughter. "Don't listen to that," Alfyn said, like he could read his mind. "Listen to me. I'm going to put you down -- hold on." 

Only then, flat on his back, breathing hard and gazing up at the cracks in the ceiling, he did finally see his face. Alfyn leaned over him, his brow furrowed, his expression etched with worry. _That bad, huh?_ Therion thought, but he couldn't find the breath to speak it with. The pain in his joints -- shoulders, hips, climbing down into his knees and elbows -- was becoming unbearable. Whatever Darius had put on that knife, he'd meant for it to give him a show. Therion clenched his jaw and refused to give it, at least for now. He sucked in a deep breath, gritting past the pain.

"You came," he said, simply, trying his best to put everything he _felt_ about that into the words, because he wasn't so sure that when he finally blacked out if he was ever coming back up. Alfyn ceased with the incessant unintelligible muttering to himself thing he always did when he was working with a patient. Their eyes met and Alfyn's brow creased, and he paused whatever horrible, tortuous thing he was doing with the wound to brush the back of his knuckles over Therion's sweat-slicked face. Therion flinched away. "I swear," he panted, forcing the words out. "Alfyn. It made sense--" 

"I know," he said, softly, soothing. 

"but I need you to _know._ I was going to find you. I wasn't... I didn't..." 

"Therion," Alfyn sighed. He closed his eyes, just for a second, his jaw tight. He snatched his hand back and reached for his satchel, instead. "I do know. I promise. Hush, now. This is going to hurt." He pulled a cork out of a bottle with his teeth, shook his head, and then poured something onto a piece of cloth. He spat out the cork and wrinkled his nose. An acrid, astringent scent filled the air. "I don't know what he used, but it's working fast. So -- we go scorched earth, all right? Take a deep breath. Here we go." 

He pressed the cloth into Therion's side. 

The pain was incredible. He might have screamed. His vision went grey, and, blessedly, he passed out. 

*

When he woke, they were still in the tunnels. There was a bitter, herbal taste in his mouth, and his injured side was a raw line of fire. He tried to sit up, but the pain stopped him. He rolled over on the stone, panting. There were bodies scattered around, all of them wrapped in cloaks, and for a moment he thought they were his friends all dead around him, still in their disguises. His gorge rose up, and then he met a dead man's eyes and realized he didn't recognize them, after all. 

Darius’s reinforcements must have shown up. Therion remembered, faintly, six greycloaks in two lines... someone had been holding Darius’s men off on their own. Olberic, probably. He reached down to touch his side, breathing hard, and found stiff bandages bulging over some sort of poultice.

He let his hand drop. His joints throbbed, from his ankles all the way to his toes. 

Up on the dais he could hear urgent voices. One was Darius. His heart slammed a distracting drumbeat in his chest while he strained to hear. 

"You can't do this to me," Darius was saying, his voice whistling strangely. 

"Are you sure?" Prim's voice answered. "You're lucky I didn't leave it to Alfyn. I'm efficient. _He_ knows how to make it hurt." 

Therion took a deep breath and tried again to sit up. This time he mostly made it, though not without a pained gasp. There was a rustle, a few urgent whispers, and then Alfyn was back at his side, reaching for him with steady hands. "Therion," he breathed in his ear. "Don't try that." 

"What's going on," he demanded, slumping against the wall. "Darius--" 

"Don't listen," Alfyn whispered. He twisted himself around and sat beside him, linking their arms together. Threaded their fingers together. Therion leaned heavily against him, relief burning through him just as shocking as the pain. "Let Prim take care of it." 

He shook his head. Alfyn didn't understand. Couldn't possibly get it. "I couldn't do it," he said. "It should have been me, but I couldn't make myself..." 

"It's all right," Alfyn said, squeezing his hand. 

"You can't just leave me here!" Darius, again, desperate and practically squealing. 

But Prim was done talking. Therion saw her shadow, first. She had a knife in hand, and its red-streaked blade dripped blood onto the stones. 

"If I die, they'll burn this city down to avenge me, do you hear?" Darius's voice pitched high, desperate. "The whole thing! To ashes!" 

"I highly doubt that," Prim said, softly. 

Therion looked up. Prim met his eyes. There was a tiny smear of blood on her sleeve. 

"Do you have the stones?" she asked. 

"Of course I do." He patted his chest. With Darius holding him that close, it hadn’t even been difficult.

She nodded, a grim little smile ghosting over her lips. "He'll die," she said, firmly. "Assuming no one saves him, of course." 

The words hung heavy between them.

Therion could hear Darius's choked groans, the pathetic, disquieting sound of him writhing on the floor. 

Prim tossed her hair back and fixed him with an absolutely withering glare. "Also, if you ever even think about pulling anything like your little stunt this morning again, I'll give you the same treatment." 

"Prim," Alfyn protested, but she held up a hand, shaking her head. 

"You'd live, because this big oaf would save you," she pointed at Alfyn, "But I highly doubt that _Darius_ has a single truly loyal henchman in his little army, let alone a pocket apothecary close to his heart." She dropped her hand. 

"Understood," Therion said, weakly.

Darius let out a pathetic gurgling moan.

"Therion," Alfyn said, his voice gentle. "Do you want me to save him?" 

A thousand thoughts went through his head at once, howling like a cyclone. He sagged against the wall, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. It hadn’t all been bad. It would have been so much easier if it had all been _bad._ Nights spent celebrating, slopping mead onto the tables and playing the generous lordlings, tipping their servers exorbitantly from coffers overflowing with ill gotten funds. Darius stepping in for him in a spot of trouble, fighting off assailants, buying him time to run. Days on the road, talking and laughing, sharing stories and histories... they’d been invincible, together. 

He closed his eyes. " _Would_ you?" 

"I wouldn't be happy about it, but... if you want me to, I will." 

He thought about it. He really did. He thought long and hard about it, while the others argued in terse, hushed tones around him, and Darius continued to gasp and curse and threaten them in weak gurgles. He thought of days spent in nervous anticipation, nights of excess and glory. Days spent slinking around quietly, careful not to raise his voice. Nights spent pressed against him in the dark, spent and sore and wondering to himself if it was like Darius said, and pain was just part of the penance you paid for caring too much. 

Alfyn never let go of his hand. 

"We should go," Therion said, finally. He wasn't sure he could offer any other explanation, but Alfyn didn't demand one.

"You got it," he said, simply, and that was that. 

Before he could so much as blink, he had Alfyn on one side of him and Prim on the other, like they were some kind of elite vanguard and he was someone who fucking mattered at all. Someone worth their time and their trust and their care. Alfyn slung his arm over his shoulders and Prim slid her arm around his waist, gentle and insistent, pulling him up and guiding him out.

Taking him home. 

*

None of them felt safe staying in the city, and by the time they reached the gate Alfyn was carrying him like a child on his back. He’d already made him take another swig of whatever awful shit he’d poured down his throat while he’d been passed out. The taste clung to his tongue, bitter and acrid and absolutely wretched. 

Lucky for them, he was too tired to whine about it. 

It was snowing, though not storming, flakes falling gently around them. They kept gathering in Alfyn's hair. He had his face pressed into the side of Alfyn's neck, his arms hung loose over his shoulders, and Alfyn kept asking him things like "Still awake?" and "Still with me, Therion?" 

He did his best to murmur responses. 

He wondered if Darius was dead, yet. 

He wondered if he should have waited to see the corpse. 

He wondered if he'd done the right thing. 

Consciousness faded in and out. His dreams were stuttered and strange, scenes from his past with Darius stitched haphazardly with his more recent history. He was thirteen, and Darius knocked him to the floor with a ringing backhand, punishment for embarrassing him in front of a client. Only then he twisted on the floor and found Olberic in the doorway, demanding an explanation, putting himself between them. He'd suffered a parade of indignities at Darius's hands, and his brain played them back dutifully, except at the worst of it, Prim would appear with her daggers, or H'aanit with Linde, or even Cyrus with his elemental incantations. Warm hands kept picking him up, and gentle brown eyes bored into his.

He was standing on a cliff, and none of them would let him fall. 

* 

He woke on his back in a tent, wrapped in thick blankets. A curious sense of having been here before gripped him, and he reached blindly out beside him to grab for Alfyn. Instead, he found more blankets, sitting in a rumpled pile. He groaned, took a deep breath, and sat up. His injury twinged, but it seemed already much improved. He was relieved to see Alfyn's things piled beside his own. He’d been half afraid that he'd lost those particular privileges. 

The tentflap quivered, and Therion blinked up, expecting Alfyn... but it was Ophilia who slipped in, her pretty mouth pulled into a tight, thin line. Then their eyes met, she realized he was awake, and her grim expression melted into wide-eyed surprise. "Oh!" she gasped, nearly dropping the cup she had clutched in her chapped fingers. "You’re --" 

"Awake," Therion agreed, nodding. Ophilia scrambled over to him, kneeling beside him. "If you’re here to make me choke down more of Alfyn’s stupid concoction --" 

"No," she said, a little smile touching her lips. "I’m perfectly happy to leave that particular task to him, thank you. I brought... " she frowned, her eyes sliding away. "Well, I’m no apothecary, and I’ve done all I can with _my_ healing. This is just..." she gestured with the cup, her cheeks pink. "It’s just tea. A specific blend. My..." she took a deep breath. "My father said the smell of it made him feel better. Stronger." 

"It smells good," Therion assured her. "A hell of a lot better than anything that ever comes out of Alfyn’s gods damned kettle, right?" 

She seemed surprised. She nodded, silently, and then set the cup down on a little block in the corner Therion suspected she’d been using for this purpose for awhile. His heart clenched. "Be nice to Alfyn," she said, then. Her tiny, knowing smile was back in full force. "He cares for you very much." 

"Yeah," Therion muttered, dropping his eyes. "I know. Hey..." 

"Hm?" 

"You knew I was going to come back, right?" 

Her face went very serious, her eyes a little sad. "Would you have, though, Therion?" She shook her head. "I know that you would have if you could, but..." she clasped her fingers together tight. "You’re very lucky. If Heathcote hadn’t found us chasing shadows up trees in that city when he did --" 

" _Heathcote?_ "

"Yes, exactly. He told us where to find you, and he gave us the idea, too -- to disguise ourselves, I mean. I’m not sure I’ve ever run so fast in my life!" She shook a finger at him, admonishing. "You really did give us a scare, you know." 

"Sorry about that," he said, softly. 

A quiet moment passed between them, and then Ophilia shook herself and stood, pursing her lips. "Apology accepted. So long as it never happens again." 

"I don’t think you need to worry about that." 

"And you’ll have to apologize to everyone else, too." 

"I know." 

"Even Tressa." 

He snorted. "Right." 

"And especially Prim, and... Alfyn, of course." 

He closed his eyes. "Prim is the one who..." he trailed off. He couldn’t make himself say it. 

"Yes," Ophilia said. 

"I’m glad. He deserves that spot on her list." 

"She was very worried about you." 

He shot her a lopsided smile. "Tell her she can beat me up later. I’m not a hundred percent up for it, just yet." 

Ophilia rolled her eyes at him, but she couldn’t quite hide the way her lips tried to twitch into a smile. "Alfyn will want to know you’re awake," she said. She looked him up and down, hands on her hips. "At least it’ll be a bit before you can get into any _more_ trouble, hm?" 

"Hey, come on." 

But she was already turning to go, waving off whatever he was about to say. He slumped back into the blankets with a sigh. The tea did smell nice. 

He’d managed to fall into a sort of half doze when the tent flap opened again, admitting in Alfyn, and on his heels, another gust of cold air. Therion pulled the blankets up over himself, aware that he was being very pathetic. Alfyn blew into his hands and rubbed them together, and then stamped his feet for good measure. His cheeks and nose were red from the wind and cold, his hair tangled even sloppier than usual, strands of it falling out of the knot behind his head. Therion realized he was wearing an _extremely_ compromisingly fond expression, and fixed it with effort. 

"You’d better not be here to feed me another elixir," he said. 

Alfyn laughed at him, which is what he’d wanted, of course. His chest filled with embarrassing warmth. He loved the way Alfyn laughed, warm and genuine. "I swear," he said, eyes crinkling as he smiled. "You’re worse than most of the literal children I’ve treated! Quit your whining, now, that elixir’s been working wonders for you. How do you feel?" 

"Better," Therion admitted. "Tired, but better." He gestured at the cup in the corner. "Phili brought tea, I guess." 

"Uh huh. Tressa brings things in too, sometimes. They both help me change that bandage twice a day, and I’ve caught Olberic pacing outside this tent almost as often as Prim’s been brooding by the fire outside. Heck, sometimes I wake up and Linde is sleeping between us with her face all tucked up against you like a kitten. Wish I could get a picture of it, I swear."

Therion pulled the blankets up higher, mostly to hide his face. "I’m sorry," he said, mumbling into the wool.

Alfyn took a deep breath, and then he dropped into the bedroll and the pile of blankets beside him. "I swear, Therion," he said, his voice strained, "For a hot minute there I thought for sure we were just gonna find your _corpse._ " He shook his head, and then he leaned in and wrapped his arms around Therion, blankets and all, pulling him against his chest. Therion returned the gesture, remembering faintly how he’d wondered a lifetime ago if Alfyn would ever even look at him again, let alone hold him like this. 

"Sorry," he said again, muffled into Alfyn’s shoulder.

"Why did you do it?" 

"I didn’t want you, all of you, but especially _you_ , to... what happened in Wellspring was so fucking embarrassing, Alf --" 

" _Idiot,_ " Alfyn sighed, tightening his arms around him. He smelled like campfire smoke. Therion breathed him in, thoughts tumbling around in his head like dice. 

"There’s... a few other things, too."

"Yeah?" 

"About me and Darius." 

"Oh... Therion. Some of the things he said, I don’t know if they were true or not, but --" 

His stomach sank. "They were probably true." 

"You don’t have to say anything. Not until you’re good and ready, and if you never are, that’s all right, too. I don’t have to hear about none of that to know how I already feel about you -- so if you want to talk about it, I want it to be for _you_ , you got that?"

"Gods," Therion murmured, shaking his head, his forehead rubbing against Alfyn’s shoulder with the movement. "I don’t get it." 

"Get what?" 

"How a guy like you can possibly _exist._ " He lifted his head. Alfyn met his eyes, looking slightly bewildered. "A long time ago, I thought I knew what it meant to... care. Both directions. I had it all figured out, and maybe it wasn’t worth much, but it was everything to me, because, you know... it was all I had." He swallowed, a dull ache climbing up behind his eyes. "I wish I could go back. You know? Go back and tell myself what it really feels like, to..." he paused. He gestured aimlessly, and let himself trail off. He could see the faint outlines of the others through the walls facing the fire, outside, moving about the camp. 

Alfyn hummed softly, rubbing his back. "I wish I could, too," he said. "But we can’t, and so I guess all I can do is try to make up all that time for you the best I can." 

"Hah. And how, exactly, are you planning to do that?" 

"Well," Alfyn pulled back, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "Telling would be spoiling, but I’ll let you in on this much -- it starts like this." He leaned in, pressing his lips firmly to his, and Therion tilted his head to meet him with a pleased little hum. 

"Get a room!" Tressa called in at them, and Therion blinked his eyes open while Alfyn let out a startled laugh against his lips. He could see Tressa’s outline, arms akimbo, standing accusingly between the door to their tent and the campfire.

"Get a life," Therion called back, and then he pulled the blankets up and Alfyn in again, twice as enthusiastic. 

* 

The warm air of the Cliftlands was a welcome reprieve, after so much time spent up north. 

He was sitting on a rocky outcropping, listening to Cyrus and Prim whispering back and forth for the thousandth time about what connection the Gate and Dragonstones had with those nightmarish blood crystals and their apparent power over life and death. Tressa had a map open in front of her, poring over the markings on it to the west, further into the cliffs. Olberic chided her sternly to watch her step, and she rolled the thing up and smacked him with it, loudly declaring that she wasn't, in fact, going to walk blindly off a cliff, thank you very much. 

Alfyn crouched beside him, his shadow falling over the edge of the cliff and into the ravine below. Therion shivered, leaning back on his hands. 

"Let me see that wrist again," Alfyn said, and Therion muttered something about _overprotective_ and _stop mothering me,_ but he did offer up his wrist for rote inspection. Alfyn ran his fingers over the bruised, raw strip of skin where the bangle had been and clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "I really should bandage this, you know. I have a salve that will --" 

"Don't," Therion snatched his hand back, cradling it against his chest. 

"Why not?" 

"I think I'm good without any extra accessories here for awhile." 

"Accessories -- Therion, a bandage is not an accessory! It's a practicality! It prevents infection! It'll feel better --" 

"Pass." 

Alfyn made a frustrated noise, slumping down onto his backside beside him. "...At least it's off of you, now," he muttered, begrudgingly. 

Therion nodded, and then, on a whim, he leaned over and against him, shoulder to shoulder. 

Alfyn chuckled, softly. "Aside from the wrist... how are you feeling?" 

"Good," Therion said.

"Well. That's better than bad."

"...Light, if that makes any sense. I feel... light. It's nice." 

Alfyn glanced at him, and then slipped his arm over his shoulders with a grin, pulling him closer. "I think that makes perfect sense." 

"Pack it up, you two," Tressa called at them, waving the map at them like a rebuke. "We've got a lot of ground to cover, and once you two get going, we all know it'll be _hours_ before you --" 

"Please don't finish that thought," Therion cut her off, covering his eyes. 

She walked off, cackling. 

They stood together, patting the dust off their clothes. Alfyn grinned and winked at him. Therion elbowed him in the ribs. Alfyn leaned down and kissed him, quick and relatively chaste, brushing their lips together.

"Tease," Therion complained without conviction. 

"I'll make up for it later," Alfyn promised, taking his hand. "Gotta do something to celebrate getting that thing off you, and all." 

"Interesting," Therion said, letting him link their fingers together without protest. 

"Just wait." 

"Sure. As far as I can tell, I've got nothing but time." 

Alfyn squeezed his hand. "Hey, Therion..." 

He knew that tone. He frowned. "Yeah?" 

"Now that that's done, you aren't gonna go running off on us again, are you?" He kept his voice light, but Therion could hear the sincere thread of worry in both his tone and the way he was squeezing his fingers tight enough to hurt. 

Therion squeezed back. "Not unless you want me to." 

"And if I _never_ want you to...?" 

"Never is a long time." 

Alfyn shrugged, pinning him with one of his more winsome grins. Therion raised his eyebrows. Alfyn leaned in for another quick kiss, still maintaining his vice like grip on his hand. "Might be, but that’s what feels right." 

"Right." Therion smirked at him, ignoring the sudden heat that washed through his cheeks. "Never it is, then." He shook his hand free, flexing his fingers, swatting Alfyn lightly with his other hand. "Until further notice, at least." He turned, hurrying after the others along the trail, while Alfyn sputtered behind him. 

"Hey! Therion -- that is not how that works! Therion!" 

He caught up to Prim, first. She shot him a sidelong glance, and with it, a knowing smirk. "If you don’t marry that boy, someone else will," she said. 

He bumped her lightly with one shoulder, shaking his head. "You’re welcome to try, but -- no offense, I don’t think you’re quite his type." 

She laughed, looping her arm with his, and when Alfyn caught up and demanded to know just what was so funny, she looped him in with her other arm and pulled him close and whispered something Therion couldn’t quite catch in his ear. He turned an amusing shade of mottled pink, shaking his head. 

"Maybe," he said, and Therion glared at them both, wrinkling his brows. 

"Maybe what," he demanded, but Alfyn just winked at him -- insufferable -- and Prim kept her eyes straight ahead, humming a little tune like she hadn’t heard him at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr: [@sealticge](http://sealticge.tumblr.com)


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